Charcoal and Ash
by Wendy Brune
Summary: So you'll take this gray existence and end it with a flash of light; Foxface's journey as told through Caesar's Palace's color challenge. Drabbles, drabbles everywhere!
1. Red

**I. Red**

"She's gonna be a firecracker, that one," Fester Glaze, your bizarre escort shouts, his blue and green teeth gleaming in the sun. (_blue and green teeth really what passes for fashion in the capitol now days._) You assume he's talking about your hair, your fiery-red hair, and you'd laugh if the circumstances were different. Instead, you're up on the stage and oh god oh god you're the tribute and suddenly everything is dark and where did the sun go why is the sun gone what are you going to do?

Fester is still prattling on in the background, but it's nothing more than sub-human sounds you just can't piece together, like a puzzle that's missing the most important pieces or a scrap of paper whose ink has been blended together by the rain. You're dimly aware that there's a boy joining you on stage, but you couldn't make out his features even if you wanted to, not with the black and the red mist that's slowly fogging up your eyes, your brain, your _heart_. (_who__'s going to watch after daddy and make sure he's eating right and who's going to joke with mama and make her smile and._)

Fester's right: you're a firecracker, and you're about to be blown to a million little pieces of charcoal and ash.


	2. Orange

**II. Orange**

Now you're stuck in this stately room in the Justice Building, and even though someone's thoughtfully (_carelessly_) put out a bouquet of daisies on the wooden window sill, you can't cleanse your nose of the smell of death that inhabitants the room. How many kids have stood in this room, never to return to their homes? Did they feel the same way you did, empty yet full of defeat, listless yet running miles in your head? (_you're not going to come home not to this place not ever again._) Death is a tendril of the most irritating variety around here, always growing, sweeping, wrapping around its victims. You weren't prepared to be next.

Now they're letting your parents in, and there's not enough time, never enough time, to say what you really want to say - that you love them, that you always knew you'd fail them (_maybe even just like this_), that they should go on without you. Instead the three of you crumble in a heap together, weeping and hugging, and all those precious words fly right out the window, past the bouquet of daisies and into the stale afternoon air. It's just a few short moments - breathes, really - and then the guards are there and then you're alone, really alone.

Now you're boarding the train to the beginning of the end, and when you find a strand of your mother's orange hair on your sleeve, you flick it behind you (_and it's the last thing of hers you touch in this lifetime._)


	3. Yellow

**III. Yellow**

There are other districts, to be sure, and you figure that they aren't that much different than yours: the architecture might be different, but at the very core of it, there are houses and industry buildings - and maybe even some discontent, too - just like yours. If the circumstances were different, you'd be rejoicing at this chance to venture out of five, to see your world. Instead you're staring out the window, and each district is only a flash of green to your eyes. Nothing more.

"Quit day dreaming and get over here," a rough voice calls out to you, and you turn to see one of your mentors, Surgel. She looks to be in her thirties, with close-cropped blonde hair and dull brown eyes. She's not much too look at - not muscular, but not skinny either. You've never seen her smile, not once; she's constantly walking around with anger in her eyes, lips twisted like a frayed wire. You can't remember what games she won, but it was based purely on luck, not strength or wit; she'd made the right alliance, and when it came down to the final two, her partner had been bitten by a snake. (_how can she mentor you when she did nothing herself_).

She's the last tribute to win from five, so the odds are clearly _not_ in your favor. You haven't seen your other mentor, Bennigan. He won the forty-fourth games, if you remember correctly, through pure strength. He'd be some help if he wasn't drunk 90% of the time; you haven't seen him since the reaping, and you probably won't seem again until the tribute parade.

To top matters off, your fellow tribute hasn't looked your way since the reaping, so there's no alliance there, either. He's a olive-skinned boy with distrustful eyes and a permanent scowl, and you can't even remember his name, much less any identifying features. (_your better off alone anyway). _You never were one for friendships, though, so maybe his retched attitude is a blessing, not a curse.

You'll settle down to listen to Surgel, abandoning your perch and the wisdom of the window, but you know before she even launches into her speech that you're going to have to do this one on your own; you probably won't survive - no really, you need to start accepting the fact that you're going to _die - _but it doesn't mean you have to take it lying down.

(_let the capitol rue the day they allowed you to have a brain)._

* * *

A/N: I'm not entirely pleased with this one - too much explaining, not enough _writing_ - but I'm also tired of letting it just sit in my doc manager. Feel free to tear this one apart.


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